Fools
by VicTheSpookyGoat
Summary: The Major and Batou have unfinished business to resolve. Rated for mild language and very brief sexual content.
1. Chapter 1

Notes:

Picks up at the end of GITS:Solid State Society. A lot of the dialogue in this chapter has been lifted from the end of Solid State Society, to contextualize their internal monologues and stay as true to the actual continuity of the film as possible. Think of this chapter as a novelization of the end of the movie.

I do not own Ghost in the Shell or any of its related properties.

* * *

Blackness. Silence. Emptiness.

Was she dead?

The last thing Major Motoko Kusanagi remembered were the words of the Puppeteer, mocking and cold even as they beckoned her to jettison this life for the alluring freedom of the vast, infinite expanse of the Net, and then that intense, all-consuming white light that had signaled brain death. Had he taken her down with him?

The blackness began to fade, though, giving way to flickering static. Somewhere close, a monitor beeped monotonously. Not dead. So then where was she? Between the beeps, she could hear something else, low and soothing. The gentle lapping of water, the distant call of seabirds. A beach? But why would she be on a beach? She was lying face down, that much she could tell, her high cheekbones pressed into the cool surface of what felt like a headrest. Her auditory and tactile processing systems were functioning properly, at least. She tried to move her head, to push herself up, but her body wouldn't respond, and still her vision was nothing but frustrating static.

"I can't see anything, somebody give me a status report!" Her vocal unit was working too, but her voice sounded foreign in her own ears. 'Frail', she thought, with panic clawing at its edges.

"Finally awake?" A familiar voice, deep and comforting, but echoing as if it were speaking to her across a great, cavernous void, responded from somewhere behind her.

"Batou? Are you there?" Her voice trembled unexpectedly as she called out to him. "What's happening?" She could hear his footsteps now, drawing closer and casting echoes off walls she couldn't see. "Where am I?"

"Oh right, shit, your eyes are still turned off... Hang on."

She could sense him beside her now, hear his fingers tapping away at a keyboard. The static fell away, and her eyes slowly focused in on smooth concrete crisscrossed with delicate wires.

"And one more for the motor functions..." More typing, and something in her cyberbrain clicked back into place.

The cyborg flexed her fingers, testing, before extending her arms to push herself up slightly, pausing to take in her surroundings. Her optical sensors were met with an impossibly tranquil scene: turquoise waves slowly crashing into white sands under a perfectly azure sky, framed by towering palm trees, gulls bobbing and diving slowly in the sea breeze high above. Besides the palms, it was an illusion, of course, cast onto the huge bay windows of Section 9's natatorium by tiny projectors embedded in the edges of the bulletproof glass, but it was her favorite one. Of course he had remembered.

She pushed herself the rest of the way up now, swinging her legs over the edge of the examination table, and carefully detached the cords that had been connecting her QRS ports to the cyberbrain maintenance monitor, which was washing out the edges of Batou's face in a soft blue light as he looked down at her, heavy brows furrowed ever so slightly.

"Glad you decided to rejoin us in the land of the living, Major." The skin around his pale, disk-like eyes crinkled as he grinned, the laughter in his voice an obvious attempt to mask his concern. He had lost his ponytail - cut, or singed off in a firefight maybe, one could never tell in their line of work - and the turtleneck-jacket combo he was sporting looked like he'd stolen it from Togusa's wardrobe, but the rakish smile was the same, as irritating and endearing as the day she'd met him. She didn't reply, instead attempting to stand, but her legs buckled beneath her and she lurched forward. Strong hands caught her, though, steadying her as they had countless times before.

"Easy there, killer. You just came out of a pretty nasty barrier maze - might want to take it slow." He placed one hand under her arm, supporting her weight as his other hand worked the controls to convert the table into a chair. She grumbled to herself, angry at her shell's apparent treachery, at her own helplessness, however temporary it might be. A quiet voice at the back of her mind, though, whispered gratitude for Batou's presence. Steady, loyal Batou. Always butting in when she wanted it least and needed it most.

Resuming her mental beratement of her prosthetic body, she sunk into the soft facsimile leather, her face falling toward the artificial paradise in the windows. As her eyes drifted over the waterline to her own reflection, she was suddenly very conscious of Batou still standing over her, and of how uncharacteristically vulnerable she felt, though she couldn't explain why. She pulled the small orange towel that had been draped over one arm of the chair into her lap, fingers tugging agitatedly at a loose thread dangling from the hem, grasping for control of something, anything. As if sensing her unease, he stepped away, and broke the uncomfortable silence.

"I don't know about you, but I could use a drink." He gave her a backward grin as he strode to the bar at the far end of the pool. "You had us all pretty worried back there, you know?" his voice was slightly muffled as he reached over the bar to retrieve two cans from the mini-fridge beneath, but she could still detect a tint of lingering concern as he continued, "Almost thought you'd gone full white-out with that Puppeteer bastard."

Batou watched Motoko closely as he relayed what had transpired after she had lost consciousness. It was as much out of a professional need to study her reactions as it was a selfish desire to take in how beautiful, and yet how inexplicably fragile, she looked in the light of the fake tropical sun. As they discussed what their respective investigations had uncovered and his own conclusions about the identity of the Puppeteer, and how the Tachikomas claimed to have lost the memory of her final conversation with the mysterious hacker, her face betrayed her exhaustion, from the disastrous dive, but also from something else he couldn't put his finger on.

She had never been quite the same after Dejima, after Kuze, that son of a bitch. Even before she had disappeared on that bright spring morning two years ago, he had seen something stirring just beneath her meticulously stoic surface, tugging her away from Section 9, away from him and whatever tentative... thing they might have had. When she left, it had taken everyone but him as a surprise, and yet he had waited, patiently, hoping, but never expecting her to return, covering her tracks where he could, praying for even a glimpse of her face, a whisper over their private comm, anything. Now she was back, and something different was stirring up storm clouds in her expression that he didn't understand yet. And so he studied her over the rim of his beer can, trying to parse out what this new thing was.

"Batou? Did you listen in at all to that conversation?" She must have realized that he was staring, because she met his eyes with a familiar, subtly inquisitive look.

"A little," he admitted, smiling guiltily. "But I guess that doesn't really matter now, does it?" It really didn't, as far he was concerned.

She gave him a funny look, but said nothing for a moment before changing the subject, her voice still sounding unbearably fatigued. "It's the strangest thing, Batou. What have I been feeling so jaded and disillusioned about? What do you think I was searching for as I was wandering around the Net?" She stood, steady this time, and strode to the window, arms crossed over her stomach. The tropical illusion dropped away, plunging the room into partial darkness and revealing the neon lights of Niihama far below, its light pollution casting an unnatural shade of mauve against the night sky. It was a rhetorical question, because she didn't wait for him to respond. "A friend? The truth? Or a certain special someone, maybe?" Her voice cracked and faded on those last words, her gaze turning skyward.

Batou said nothing, but the thin aluminum of his beer can buckled beneath his fingertips as his grip tightened reflexively. What did she mean by that? A cynical, bitter voice spat the name Kuze, but another voice, the one that had kept him scanning the Net for her late into the night, month after month, never losing hope, whispered 'maybe she means you.' He couldn't decide which voice to trust. Maybe neither.

"Perhaps I just wanted to blame this organization or even the system for my own sense of helplessness." There was a tremor in her voice that made his heart catch in his throat and he set down set his beer.

"Heh, what's gotten into you? You turning all meek and modest on me?" His Ranger-issue eye implants could spot a target camouflaged in the thickest jungle from 20 clicks, but they couldn't see whatever it was that had caused his Major's voice to waver like that of a lost child. "Did you get whatever it was out of your system?" He asked, trying to keep his tone jovial as he closed the gap between them in a few hesitant strides. She said nothing, but glanced up at him with a look that suggested perhaps she had. His sigh betrayed a bit too much relief, so he tried to recover by continuing in a gently ribbing tone, "Ok, so what are you gonna do now? Plan on keeping up that 'picking the cases you work on based on your gut feeling about 'em' routine of yours?"

"Maybe I'm finished with that too. When I'm operating under restrictions, I definitely feel constrained by them..." Her arms tightened slightly, her voice carrying a hint of some hidden meaning as she continued, "but without constraints it doesn't feel like my actions are accomplishing anything. I'm right back to where I started from."

"What's that supposed to mean? Is that your way of saying you're coming back to Section 9?" The little hopeful voice urged him on as he shifted to stand a little closer, cautiously, afraid the closeness might scare her away again, this time to never come back. To his surprise and relief, she let out a breathy chuckle.

"What about Togusa? Wouldn't I get in the way of his development?" There was a hint of that playful sarcasm that he remembered, replacing the dreadful weariness that had permeated her voice all night.

"Well if that prevents him from growing, then he wasn't gonna go any further anyway." Slowly, warily, he swung his arm up and around her, pausing for the briefest moment over her lower back but deciding quickly against it, and laid his hand on her shoulder instead. "I wouldn't sweat it if I were you."

"Perhaps you're right..." Her voice was lighter now, as if something had been lifted. He smiled, and allowed his thumb to trace a gentle caress across her soft skin.

Before, Motoko might have shrugged off his gesture, seen it as overprotectiveness, an unbidden intrusion into the high-walled garden of her independence that she had spent so many years carefully building. But right now, Batou's firm grip on her shoulder felt like an anchor in a storm, tethering her to this moment, this reality. She let herself lean against his solid frame, her ennui crumbling into the security and sureness of his touch. He must have received her unspoken invitation, because she felt him move behind her, his arms wrapping themselves around her athletic shoulders and narrow waist so that she was soon enveloped, her back pressed against his broad torso, his cheek pressed against the crown of her amethyst hair. Her mind wandered back to another time, in another place, the last time she had allowed him to hold her like this, after he nearly died for a sentimental trinket, on a night that he had believed might be their last. She had missed him, though she would never admit it aloud. A wistful smile tugged at the corners of her lips.

It quickly waned, though, as her memories drifting forward to the morning after that night, to his anguished voice hoarsely screaming her name as he stared helplessly down at her shattered body, its artificial blood staining the tarmac a brilliant, cruel shade of crimson. She never told him that she had been watching the security feed that morning from an undisclosed location, never told him how she had listened to his heart wrenching sobs and stoically buried any remorse over her deception under a heavy blanket of resolve in her plan to keep them both alive. The slideshow of memories skipped ahead again, this time to the cold, cramped hole on Dejima where she had been trapped with Kuze, where they had discovered their shared past and made their last-ditch attempt to upload the ghosts of millions of refugees on to the Net before they could be snuffed out by a seemingly-inevitable nuclear holocaust. She could still hear the sound of cement cracking and shattering, of her own name again escaping as a desperate cry from Batou's lips as he had thrust that massive cross of steel into the rubble to free her. 'My cross,' she thought, taken up without hesitation, against her orders. The vivid image of the pained and painful look on his face when he had found them, frozen in a furtive farewell embrace, surfaced now. With it came a pang of remorse over how she had never been able to explain what had really happened because it would have meant admitting things much more dangerous, including the thing she had half-revealed to Kuze when he had asked if she had anyone she could really open up to...

"I missed you, you know," Batou whispered, interrupting her musings, sincerity concealed beneath his joking tone.

Guilt coiled like a viper in the pit of her stomach, and she knew she couldn't let this continue. She sighed, and brought her own hands up to clasp his, giving the faintest squeeze before gently pulling herself out of his embrace. "Batou. I think I'd like to go home now." The viper coiled tighter as the next words left her mouth. "Give me a ride?"

"Yeah, sure." There was a tinge of hurt in his voice, but it passed, replaced by gruff annoyance. "Hey, do you still have my keys?"

"Check your pocket," she responded, already heading toward the elevator, grateful he couldn't see her expression.


	2. Chapter 2

The engine of the low slung sports car roared as it sped out of the underground parking garage and down cramped urban streets toward the outskirts of the city, the passing streetlights overhead illuminating its passengers in neon flickers. Batou's hands were tense with warring emotions as he clenched the steering wheel, expertly guiding the high-performance machine between other cars and around tight corners, cybernetic eyes stubbornly focused on the road and not the woman beside him. Neither of them had spoken since they'd left the Section 9 headquarters and a deafening, pregnant silence had descended to fill the space between them.

'Idiot. Why'd you have to go and say you missed her? So fucking stupid.' Angrily, he jabbed at the car stereo controls, desperate for something to break the silence. A mournful piano and trumpet duet crooned out from the surround speakers. "I'm a Fool to Want You", the dash informed him, unnecessarily. Normally the Lee Morgan classic was one of his favorites, especially for nighttime drives, but right now he felt like it was mocking him. 'That's right, that's me. A damn fool.' Scoffing aloud, he turned the stereo off again, deciding that silence was better than being taunted by a trumpeter who'd been dead for 60 years. He reached for the slightly crumpled pack of cigarettes in his inside breast pocket and tapped it on the steering wheel to release one. Shoving it into his mouth, he discarded the rest of the pack on the dashboard and cracked the window before retrieving his lighter from another pocket. Smoke drifted up around his face as he puffed furiously, a self-effacing stream of obscenities running through his head.

"I thought you liked that song?" Her clear, quiet voice cut through his self-flagellation like a high velocity round.

Was that concern he detected? No, it couldn't be. She didn't show concern, not at something as stupid as his childish pouting over some injury she didn't even know she'd caused. He took another drag before looking over at the Major, and found her staring at him, a searching look on her face. Unable to meet her eyes, he jerked his head forward to refocus on the road, swerving to miss an imaginary pothole. "Not in the mood for it," he responded, brusquely.

"Oh," was all she said. Out of the corner of his vision he watched her turn back toward the window, her cheek resting on one palm, a delicate silver wristwatch peeking out from the sleeve of her overcoat, glittering in the passing lights. He thought he caught a glimpse of pain tugging at the edges of her expression reflected in the darkened glass, but that couldn't be either. She didn't show her pain, not even to him, not even when he practically begged her to.

Sighing, he slouched back into his seat, feeling like he'd been defeated in a game she didn't know they were playing. 'Good job, moron...'

The heavy coils of guilt were still churning as Motoko resumed her silent surveillance of the city passing outside the car window. It was late, and the streets were nearly abandoned except for a few scattered figures; lonely salarymen on their way back to darkened homes and neglected families, sorry looking beggars slumped against cold walls in gloomy alleyways, couples strolling arm in arm unaware of anything but their private bliss. She closed her eyes, sinking back into her own thoughts.

The obvious hurt in Batou's demeanor hadn't surprised her; what had was how it was making her feel. Sneaking a sidelong glance at his tight-lipped scowl, she imagined how he must have felt in the wake of her departure from Section 9, thought about how she'd watched from afar as he withdrew in upon himself to stave off creeping despair and escape the pitying looks of his teammates, how she'd evaded his clumsy attempts to find her. How she'd been tempted to let him. The knot in her stomach tightened as she thought about how she had almost let him in, before everything went to hell on Dejima; let him get so close, giving him a taste of something she knew she was only going to take away again the moment she felt his closeness become too stifling. How many times had she done that? How many times had her words stung him, had her actions wounded him? How many times had she broken his heart?

Anyone else would have - and had - given up long ago, cursing her name as they ran somewhere far away from her cold indifference. But not Batou. He was always there, ready to charge in to put himself between her and danger, to rescue her regardless of whether she needed or wanted him to, to take whatever load she needed carried from her. Always willing to bear the physical and emotional burden, never asking for anything in return. Hell, here he was driving her home after she'd so coldly brushed off a sincere confession of vulnerability, rejecting his offer of affection yet again.

She realized, uncomfortably, that she had always known what his feelings for her were, but that until now, she had never actually put all of the pieces together to uncover the startling depth of his devotion. 'Maybe too late', she thought, she finally understood that he truly loved her, with a fierceness and an unconditionality that she wasn't sure she had the capacity to reciprocate. 'But you do.' A whisper from her ghost, forcing her to face the thing she'd pushed aside again and again in the name of duty, and independence, and a good deal of selfishness.

As if sensing her inner turmoil, Batou's voice cut through her reverie. "Motoko?", he whispered, worry softening his earlier brusqueness and sending the knot springing up into her throat as something else. She felt the harsh sting of facsimile tears pooling at the corners of her eyes. 'Why did I let Kurutan talk me into getting those tear-duct implants?' A single, fat droplet broke free of her attempts to stifle it, trailing down her cheek like lava.

Before she could react, a calloused thumb was brushing the tear away. "Hey," he asked, shakily, clearly having been thrust well beyond the edges of his comfort zone, eyes fixed on hers, "what gives?"

She dropped her head, unable to meet his piercing gaze a moment longer, feeling suddenly very small and unworthy. "Nothing... I just..."

"What?" He was giving her permission; she just had to muster the courage.

"Realized something..." Looking up at his face now, any trace of his former anger disintegrated into single minded concern, a thought came over her, a whisper from her ghost, begging to be spoken aloud. 'It was you all along.' Unable or unwilling to concede to the entreaties of her ghost, she decided on a different tactic. "I don't want to go back to my apartment."

"Uh, ok..." his response was hesitant. "You wanna go to a bar? Ishikawa found a couple new places you might like."

"Maybe some other time..." She gave him a look, hoping he would understand without making her spell it out. To her relief, he did, and turned the car at the next cross-street.

The narrow stairwell leading down to his basement apartment was dark as Batou covertly punched his security code into the keypad. 0-9-0-1. Opening the door, he whispered a silent thanks that he had decided to hire on that cleaning lady a few months back, despite Aramaki's scolding that it would put his cover at risk. He had never actually met the woman, except as a photo in the background file sent over by the agency, but he made a mental note to leave her an extra big tip the next time she came by. His heartbeat was pounding in his artificial eardrums as he stepped aside to let his Major enter first, his hands shaking imperceptibly - he hoped - as he followed and re-engaged the elaborate system of locks behind them.

The apartment was small and sparsely furnished, lit only by a fluorescent bulb above the doorway as they entered, definitely the residence of a workaholic bachelor. The living room and kitchen were one room, separated by a burnished steel island, onto which Batou deposited his car key, wallet, and sidearm. A darkened hallway led off to the right of the kitchen, toward the bedroom and bathroom. The cabinets and appliances were the same dull gunmetal color as the island in the sparse light, the tile below a dingy off-white. He flipped on the overhead light before pulling off his jacket, which he threw over the arm of a faded leather recliner, the only thing in the place that looked lived in. Next to it, an empty ashtray atop a nondescript side table, and next to that, an ancient-looking stereo cabinet. A heavy metal workbench topped with neatly arranged toolboxes and ammunition cases opposite that. No TV. No art on the walls. No windows. Not a home, just a place to exist between missions. Motoko paused in the center of the living room, surveying the place briefly before removing her own coat and laying it neatly over his.

"You hired a cleaning service, didn't you? That's an awfully big risk, even for you." There was a hint of playfulness to her question that somehow set him at ease.

"Ape face said the same thing," he replied with a shrug and a sheepish grin. Feeling a bit more comfortable now, in his own space, he decided to take a chance. "You want something to drink?"

"No thanks." She had moved to the kitchen space and was inspecting the small handful of photos taped to his refrigerator door, expressionless.

'Shit.' Batou realized, cringing, that the fake family portrait they had taken with Borma's nephew was among those photos and that she would definitely notice. He'd forgotten that he had hung it there after she had disappeared. Mercifully, she said nothing. Needing desperately to distract himself, he retrieved a bottle of whiskey and an appropriate glass from the cabinet above his sink, and poured himself a generous finger. 'Shit.' His hands were shaking again and he had sent some of the amber liquid sloshing over the rim of the glass onto the counter. He grabbed a paper towel from the roll next to the sink, a bit too roughly; the roll toppled and fell into the metal basin. 'Shit.'

Motoko pretended not to notice Batou's nervous fumbling, the smallest kindness she could offer him, she thought. Instead, she kept her eyes on his surprisingly sentimental collection of photos. Almost every member of Section 9 was represented, except the notoriously and prudently camera shy Aramaki. There was one of Pazu and Saito in slightly rumpled suits, arms draped around each other's shoulders, grinning wolfishly with a pair of beautiful women looking exceptionally bored in the background. In another, a much younger looking Ishikawa and pre-eye-implant Borma flexing in front of a tank in desert fatigues. Next to it, a group shot of the Tachikoma and their operators, taken not long after the tanks had been delivered to Section 9. Below that, a holiday card bearing a scene of cheesy domestic bliss: Togusa in a Santa hat, with his wife and children, in front of a European-style Christmas tree. And of course, in the very center of these frozen memories, that memento of the imaginary life that both she and Batou knew they could never have.

Studying the goofy grin on his photo face, she remembered how angry he had been after that mission. At the time she had told herself it was just a combination of the decommissioning of the Tachikoma and disappointment over his fallen idol, but on reflection she realized, with another pang of remorse, how much more there had been to that story. Tearing herself away, she turned her attention to the real Batou, who was now leaning on one elbow against the opposite corner of the island, eyes fixed on the whiskey glass he was slowly twirling in the other hand.

She took the opportunity to really look at him. His face was certainly not conventionally attractive, but there was something ruggedly handsome in its flat planes and harsh angles. Her gaze drifted downward to the impressive bulk of his chest and arms, straining ever so slightly against his black turtleneck, then to massive hands that could shatter steel with a well-placed right hook. His body had been designed for power and stamina; sculpted, perhaps, in imitation of some ancient Roman gladiator or Viking warlord, but chosen more out of practicality than vanity. He must have sensed that she was staring, because he glanced up from his whiskey and flashed her a cheeky grin, flexing one massive arm in an exaggerated impression of some American bodybuilder. Refusing to humor his ridiculous pose, she rolled her eyes as she crossed the kitchen to lean next him, giving him a disapproving smirk in exchange for his obviously fake pout.

"This is nice," he said, after a long pause. "Feels like old times."

'Old times,' she echoed, silently. Of course. They had ended up back at this apartment on a number of occasions, usually after a particularly challenging mission, after they both decided to drink too much with their alcohol processors turned off and give their teammates the slip. Most times they just talked, but other times, they let themselves do things they shouldn't. They never spoke about those nights, even to each other, in fear that the others would find them out, or worse, that they would find out something about themselves. But this wasn't those times. They were both stone sober and the silence between them was charged with something other than lust and liquid courage, and she knew he was lying; to her, but mostly to himself.

How had she let it get this awkward? What the hell was she doing, standing in his kitchen wearing little more than what might pass for modest underwear on anyone else, a maelstrom of emotion and competing impulses roaring in her head? She was used to being in control of every situation, but right now she felt that control slipping from her grasp; the harder she tried to hold onto it, the faster it slipped. Something had to give, and Motoko knew that she would have to be the one to give it a push. She knew what she wanted to do - had to do. Standing up with a resolute sigh, she turned to stand in front of him, a slightly confused look furrowing his brows as she took the whiskey glass out of his hand and slammed it back in one deft twist of her wrist.

"I was going to drink that, you know," he protested, though they both knew he wasn't about to actually do anything about it.

"Shut up, Batou." Before he could respond, she leaned in, one hand grasping the scruff of his neck, and firmly pressed her lips to his.

Batou froze as she kissed him, caught off guard and uncertain if he could or should trust what was happening. She must have sensed his hesitation, because she broke away abruptly, her steely expression suddenly full of apologies, and he immediately realized his mistake.

"I'm so-" He didn't let her finish, catching her slender wrist before she could pull too far away and drew her close again, his lips finding hers this time. They were soft, and cool, and yielding. He felt her tense and then relax against him, sinking into his embrace as he wrapped his other arm around her waist. Releasing her wrist and bringing his hand up to cup the delicate line of her jaw, he kissed her harder, their lips conveying a small part of what their voices had never been able to. Her now-free hand snaked its way up and around his neck again, fingers running gently through his hair. His heart threatened to burst from his chest and fly off somewhere into the night. He didn't care what had prompted this or what disaster might come out of it. She felt real, and he felt whole.

As suddenly as the moment had begun, though, it was shattered by the sound of someone or something shuffling behind him. Batou reacted with precisely honed instinct, turning to place his body between Motoko and the intruder, the hand that been cradling her face reaching for the pistol lying on the counter behind him. Just as quickly as he had raised the weapon, though, he lowered it again with an exasperated sigh as he realized what had interrupted them.

The big brown eyes of a slightly paunchy looking basset hound were staring up at them out of the shadows of the hallway. Seemingly oblivious to how close it had come to certain death, the dog sat back on its haunches and scratched at one floppy ear with an oversized paw before looking back up at them with a tilt of its head and a soft woof.

"You got a dog ?" Motoko asked, incredulously, looking at him as if he'd grown a second head.

Pressing the barrel of the gun to the bridge of his nose and briefly toying with the idea of putting himself out of his misery, he ignored the question to address the dog in the stern but paternal tone of a father scolding an unruly child. "Gabu! Bad dog! We've talked about this, don't sneak up on Batou like that." Gabu responded with a dog's smile, tongue rolling out of its mouth to one side, nonplussed. "Go on, go lay down." He gestured toward the living room with the pistol. "Go..." The basset gave him a whine, but obliged, padding across the room to clamber gracelessly onto the recliner. She turned two or three times before settling in with a huff, baleful eyes still locked on her master.

"Not on the- oh whatever. Stay."

"Gabu?" Motoko asked again, grinning like a cat that had just caught a mouse, as she gingerly took the gun out of his hand and returned it to the counter.

"Oh shut up." He wasn't about to let this turn into a roast, and silenced the possibility of further jabs by pulling her back into another kiss, any fear he might have had of retribution cast aside as she melted into his arms. When she broke away, she just smiled up at him, and laid her head on his chest.

Motoko tried and failed to remember the last time she had felt like this. Content. Safe. Human. The guilt and the doubt had fallen away, and whatever thread had been tugging her away, tempting her out into the vast expanses of the Net, seemed to have snapped, or at least slackened for the time being. Batou's chest was warm against her cheek, and she could feel the steady thrum of his mechanical heart, the heat of his breath against her scalp, the surprising tenderness of his big, rough-skinned hand as he stroked her hair. He smelled like whiskey and gun oil, tobacco smoke and sandalwood. She thought she might have liked to stay like this forever.

The soft tinkling of piano keys, and then the mournful crooning of a trumpet, broke through the silence and she glanced up at Batou, as if to demand an explanation. He didn't offer one, but instead just shrugged as he took one of her hands in his and led her into the living room. Neither of them actually knew how to dance, but it didn't seem to matter; they moved in that way nervous teenagers do, swaying almost in time to the music, shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other. She didn't recognize the tune; something from the early twentieth century. Coltrane, maybe? Normally she hated his hopelessly outdated taste in music, but tonight it felt... right. The ceiling light above them dimmed, plunging the room into a golden wash from the light of a pair of sconces on the walls. When had he gotten so smooth?

—Batou— She whispered through their private comm line, the one he had always kept open.

—Don't you say a word about the Duke—

—I wouldn't dare—

He bent down to kiss her again, once on the lips, then again on the forehead, and she closed her eyes as they continued their slow, clumsy dance. The absurdity and perfection of the moment had caused that viper of guilt to read its ugly head again.

—Batou—

—Hmm?—

—You know...— She faltered. She had long since lost track of the number of armored suits, rogue tanks, snipers, terrorists, and hackers she had faced down without a hint of fear, without a moment's hesitation. So why the hell was her heart beating so fast? Steeling herself, she pressed on. —You know I can't ever give you that life—

The gentle swaying stopped. She was afraid to open her eyes, to see what terrible expression might be contorting his features. But she forced herself to face it, and was surprised to see him smiling serenely down at her.

"Motoko... the only life I need is one with you in it, whatever that has to mean." The absolute conviction, the unabashed sincerity of his declaration nearly brought her to tears again. In the logic centers of her cyberbrain, she wondered what she had done to deserve this, but her ghost whispered reassurances that it didn't matter, and Motoko reciprocated his bravery with a kiss that she hoped would say 'and I, you.'

She finally let herself relax into this new moment, to be carried away by the soft light and the music and the feeling of strong hands holding her close. Neither of them spoke as the heartbreaking jazz standard melted into another, then another, and she soon lost track of the time as it seemed to stretch and bend around them. Her eyelids were getting heavy, she realized with dismay, the steady rocking of their bodies and the lingering fatigue of her earlier exertions conspiring to lull her into a trance. She fought against the tug of sleep with all her might, desperate to stretch the night as far as she could, but she could feel her senses dulling into a warm, hazy fog. The last thing she remembered clearly was the sensation of powerful arms sweeping her up and carrying her away from that golden paradise in spite of her stubborn protests.

Although the Major's military-grade body was deceptively heavy, it was nothing for Batou to hoist her into his arms and cradle her gently as he carried her down the darkened corridor to his bedroom. She murmured sleepy dissents, her long fingers clutching at the smooth fabric of his shirt, but he ignored them, carefully lowering her onto the pillowy surface of his oversized bed and removing her shoes. As he pulled the blanket over her willowy frame, tucking the edge under her chin and brushing a few stray hairs from her face, her grumbling subsided into tired resignation. Satisfied that she was comfortable, he sat on the edge of the bed next to her, careful not to jostle her.

Lit only by the moonlight filtering in through the intricate but blast-proof metal screen covering the only window in the apartment, her expression was more serene than he had ever seen it. The astonishing beauty of the sight stole the breath from his lungs, and he thought that if he'd still had eyes capable of such a thing, he might have wept. She looked like a porcelain doll, or an angel, though she would have throttled him if she knew he had compared her to either. Beneath this tranquil shell, she was a typhoon, threatening to destroy everything and everyone in its path; but tonight he had finally made it to the eye of her storm and though he knew the winds and waves of her mercurial nature would eventually sweep him back out into the choppy seas, he was content to savor it while he could.

Slowly, gingerly, he leaned over and planted a final goodnight kiss on her forehead, lingering just long enough to fill his olfactory receptors with her natural perfume - thunderstorms and windflowers - before withdrawing, planning to retreat back to the safety of his recliner. Lady Luck had showered enough graces on him tonight and he wasn't about to press her for any more favors. As he stood, though, a hand emerged from the covers to grasp his wrist, and he thought he felt his heart skip a beat.

"Where're y'goin'?" Motoko murmured groggily, her voice muffled slightly under the heavy comforter. Vivid cerise eyes peered up at him from beneath heavy lids, begging - no, demanding - for him to stay. He breathed a silent prayer, and gently extricated his wrist from her surprisingly firm grip. Her gaze was still on him, staring pointedly through the darkness, and without daring to question it lest she change her mind, he obliged its silent request by shedding his boots and turtleneck. He paused momentarily before removing his belt and holster too, and then hesitantly climbed into the bed beside her. It was only once he had settled in, wrapping his arms around her and cradling her head into the crook of his neck that she finally relaxed and closed her eyes again.

Sleep eluded him, though, despite his own exhaustion, and he lay awake listening to the barely audible rhythm of her breath for what felt like hours. He replayed the evening's events over and over in his mind, examining each action and reaction from every conceivable angle, like a detective sifting through evidence, not entirely convinced that they weren't just false memories implanted by some cruel adversary. 'Is she really back? Will she really stay?' A stolen glance down at her sleeping face, at her pale hand clasping his in the darkness, cast his doubts to the wind, and he pressed his lips to the skin just behind her ear before whispering very, very softly, "I love you."

With the weight of this confession finally lifted from his chest, he allowed the warmth and the darkness to envelope him too, drifting into the deep, impenetrable slumber of a man contented.

* * *

Notes:

I can't remember which fic it was that mentioned Lee Morgan's "I'm a Fool to Want You" (gimme a shout out if that was you so i can give you proper credit), but it's such a fitting theme for these two that I couldn't help but swipe the idea.


	3. Chapter 3

Light. Stillness. The sounds of a bustling street market somewhere in the distance. The smell of coffee wafting from down the hall and a masculine scent on the pillows beneath her head.

Motoko opened her eyes slowly, letting them adjust to the bright morning sun now casting its rays through the window high above her. Gradually, memories of the night before filtered back to her and she rolled over, her hand reaching out across the mattress, alarm rushing in as she felt nothing but cool cotton sheets beneath her palm. She sat up, scanning the room for some sign that what she remembered wasn't just a dream or implanted memories. At the foot of the bed her eyes found what they were looking for: the black turtleneck draped over the back of a large wooden chair, massive combat boots lying askew on the floor beside it. She let out a sigh laden with more relief than she had expected and sank back into the luxuriant warmth of Batou's bed.

"What, afraid I ran off on you this time?" Batou himself had appeared in the doorway, grinning mischievously. He was wearing a muscle shirt and sweatpants, fresh from a jog, and holding two large mugs that somehow managed to look tiny in comparison to his massive frame. She rolled onto her side and glared at him, stung by the implication even though she knew that she had no right to be. The sudden dissipation of his grin betrayed his realization that he must have hit a nerve. He practically ran to the bed, cursing under his breath as hot coffee splashed onto the floor, burning his fingers on its way down, and abandoned the mugs on the bedside table, sending more coffee sloshing and more curses streaming from his mouth. Clearly flustered, he hastily wiped his hands on his shirt and clambered onto the bed beside her. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean-"

His comically disproportionate panic at his apparent misstep had already dissolved her unearned feelings of hurt by the time his hands found their way to her cheeks. Motoko let out a genuine laugh, the first in a long time, and stroked his now thoroughly bewildered face. "It's ok," she reassured him, first with her words and then with a light kiss on the cheek. "I'll forgive you as long as there's coffee left."

It took him a beat to regain his composure and he leaned back to inspect the damage he had done; it looked like there was almost as much coffee on the floor and the table as there was in the mugs. Shooting her a sheepish grin and a shrug, he handed her the more full of the two. "I better get something to clean that up. Gabu will lick anything off the floor and she gets the runs if she has coffee..." he trailed off, obviously catching the expression that told him he'd said way too much, and retreated back down the hall toward the kitchen.

Watching him disappear around the corner, she sipped her coffee, letting its slightly bitter, roasted notes linger on her taste and olfactory receptors. Her prosthetic body didn't actually need the caffeine, but she savored it nonetheless. The habit made her feel more human, the deliberate ritual of its preparation in an archaic press lending a small sense of normalcy to a life otherwise devoid of such. She knew that Batou used the same kind of device and noted, with a hint of nostalgia, that he still managed to make the cyborg-friendly synthetic brew taste like what she imagined the real thing might. She could hear his deep voice booming from the kitchen, cooing at his basset hound and ordering her to stay put. 'He got a dog...'

A moment later, he reappeared with a roll of paper towels and closed the bedroom door behind him before kneeling down to mop up his mess. Motoko found herself suddenly distracted by the way the muscles of his back and arms moved as he pushed a crumpled mass of paper towels over the scattered pools of coffee on the floor, his white-blonde hair falling into his face as he crawled his way toward the bed, completely absorbed in his task. She hid a sly smile behind another sip of coffee, and was struck with an idea.

Quietly, she set the cup down and swung her legs over the side of the bed so that her feet came down on either side of his shoulders just as he was cleaning up the last rivulets of liquid from the underside of the bed frame. She watched with amusement as he froze for a moment before popping his head up over the side of the mattress to stare at her dumbly. His expression shifted in turns from confusion to surprise to delight as she bent over him to grasp his arms and guide his hands up the finely toned thighs which were now straddling his midsection. Leaving his hands to their own devices, she moved her own to either side of his thick neck, kissing him deeply, greedily. Muscular arms wrapped around her hips, pulling her to the edge of the bed as he met her passion with equal force. He moved to stand now, clearly intending to take her with him, and she tightened her grip around his neck as he lifted her off the bed.

Batou held Motoko tightly, his tongue probing and hands groping, her perfectly crafted bosom pressed against the taut muscles of his broad chest. His mind wandered to what felt like a lifetime ago, to black-out-stumbling-drunk middle of the night trysts, when she would let him have her roughly, furtively, against the wall of one of their bedrooms after their most frustrating cases had finally been brought to an end. The memories of those illicit encounters sent an aching heat surging through his body from his core.

Then something slid out of place, and suddenly, here and now, it didn't feel right. His grip slackened as he sank back onto the bed, still holding her. They sat there for a while, foreheads pressed together and eyes cast downward, neither of them moving, neither of them speaking. They'd done this plenty of times before, in plenty of places and positions, but now, with the harsh morning sun streaming in and the memories of the night before still playing over in his mind, all of those encounters seemed crass, even lewd. Back then those indiscretions had just been an excuse to get close to her without having to admit what he really felt, without having to open up the gaping wound of his heart to the unbearable intensity of her scrutiny. But now, he couldn't hide his longing. He had already revealed too much to turn back. She was the only person in the world who could drive him to the heights of delirium and the pits of despair; the only woman he had ever loved - could ever love - like this. For the first time, she'd shown him that she might return some fraction of his feelings, and he was blowing it in a big way.

He felt her shift above him, lifting herself off his lap and down onto the bed beside him, and his hands withdrew from her into tightly clenched fists pressed into his own thighs. 'You idiot,' he thought, mentally punching himself for ruining the moment. A gentle hand on his disrupted his internal tirade, though, and he looked up to meet Motoko's searching gaze. She smiled, and the room began to fill with the sound of jazz piano. He stared at her for a moment, a little stunned, before finding his words. "I thought you hated the Duke," he laughed.

"I don't even know who that is," she replied, lifting her hand to stroke his cheek, the sun framing her face in a halo of light. —I just know it makes you happy—

If it had been possible for someone to fall any deeper in love than Batou already was with Motoko, in that moment he would have; but it was not, so he had to settle for a demonstration instead, returning and amplifying her gesture by pulling her into another kiss, softer and sweeter this time. This was a special moment, and he wanted to savor it, to make real, honest love to her instead of giving in to the craven urges that wanted him to throw her against the back of the door and ravish her like some sort of crazed beast. So he cradled her cheek and kissed her tenderly, his free hand reaching back to clasp hers. Slender fingers slid to the back of his head, through his hair, and this time, a joyful warmth replaced the frenzied heat he'd felt only minutes before. An idea whispered to him, and he pulled his lips away from hers to trace a path of featherlight kisses over her perfectly sculpted chin and slender neck, across the graceful line of her collar, and down her toned arm to her fingertips, which he kissed one by one, never taking his eyes off of hers. The next kiss, this time to the nearly translucent skin of her wrist, elicited a soft gasp. Her free hand, which had been toying with his hair, snaked under the hem of his shirt, lifting it up his chest and over his head with the practiced ease of an old pro. He felt her tugging at his waistband, but he wasn't ready for that, and gently diverted her hand. As a compromise, he tugged open the buttons of her thin top, sliding it off her shoulders.

"Now we're even," He whispered huskily into her ear, cupping one alabaster breast firmly and felt her shiver against him as he ran the rough pad of his thumb over the extra sensitive skin of her areola. His lips found hers again, his free hand sliding up to grasp the short hairs on the back of her neck as he kissed her lovingly. She let him lower her back onto the bed, their hands caressing and exploring, breath mingling. This time when she reached for the drawstring of his sweatpants, he didn't stop her, letting her slide them down over his hips so he could kick them off, only a bit awkwardly. Her shorts were far easier to remove, sliding off over her hips and long legs in a single, fluid motion. She pulled him closer and he shifted to position himself over her. His eyes asked the question, and hers gave the answer.

Afterward, their bodies still drenched in artificial sweat, limbs entangled, chests rising and falling with ragged breaths, Motoko found herself wondering, with a sinking sense of dread, if she had just made a terrible mistake. It had been so long since she had let herself go like this, let him touch her like this, and she was seized by a sudden desire to leap from the bed and flee naked into the streets to escape this overwhelming feeling of intense vulnerability. Glancing over at Batou's face, though, seeing that dopey, contented smile, she banished the impulse as quickly as it had emerged. 'You're exactly where you belong.'

Outside, a car horn honked, a dog barked, a vendor called out, hawking questionable wares to passing shoppers. The angle of the sun had shifted, the changing light in the room indicating that it had to be close to noon. How long had they been lying there, she wondered, not really caring. The sheets were cool and slightly damp beneath her, Batou warm beside her. The sound of something mournful and haunting drifted into her ears. It was the song that he had turned off in the car, and as she listened to its melancholic progression, she understood why. He had told her the name of it once, but she couldn't put her finger on it, having never bothered to commit the information to memory. At the time, it hadn't seemed important. She couldn't ask him now, though, so she scanned the nets for it instead. The answer came to her, with it another insight into something deeper about the man beside her.

The revelation pushed her mind out to the sea of what would come next. Would she withdraw again, retreat back behind her impenetrable walls to leave him battered and bruised at the gates, or would she let him in, let the long-deferred fantasy crystallize into a reality? If the latter, how would they navigate the uncharted terrain that was sure to unfold before them, full of towering obstacles and difficult conversations and inevitable clashes of two unbending wills? Her ghost whispered, repeating Batou's words from the day before, when she'd asked him to back her up. A promise wrapped in a question. 'Isn't this the way we've always done it?' Understanding and certainty settled over her; he would always be there, stubbornly and constantly beside her as they plunged headlong into the chasm of potentials. She had made her decision.

Completely unaware of the questions and choices swirling in the mind of the woman beside him, Batou was lost in his own contemplation. A thought had snagged in the back of his mind, whispering that if he looked away she might not be there when he looked back, but he exiled it back into his subconscious. He watched her chest rise and fall gently, her eyelids heavy over crimson irises. Anyone else might surmise that she wasn't going anywhere, except maybe back to sleep, but he knew her better than to jump to that conclusion.

So he too wondered what would come next. He knew they could never have what any couple would consider a 'normal' life, and he doubted if that was what either of them actually wanted. They were both professionals, married to their work, committed to a certain level of independence that held no space for any traditional notions of romance or domesticity. He hadn't lied when he had told Motoko that all he needed was her, though, and the way she had kissed him afterward made him think that maybe she felt the same. If not, though, if she withdrew again, or worse, fled completely, he took some strange comfort in knowing that at least he would know what to do. He'd wait, patiently, like he always had and always would. And if she stayed? He would follow her to the bottom of the ocean, to the hearts of active volcanoes, to the end of the world and beyond. Whether she would do the same, whether she would even notice, didn't matter, as long as she let him follow her.

The feeling of soft lips on his neck brought Batou's attention suddenly back to the present, and he brought a hand up to her face, tilting her chin so he could reach her lips with his. 'This is as close to heaven as you're ever gonna get, buddy', he thought as he pulled away to look at her again. The music, which had subsided into the background, forgotten during their lovemaking, now reasserted itself, that mournful melody crooning out from a hidden speaker. Maybe he was a fool, he thought, but at least for now he was a happy fool.

Beside him, Motoko stirred, pushing herself up into a sitting position and the cold knot of fear that she actually was going to leave reared back out from his subconscious, but she turned to face him instead, searching his expression for what, he couldn't tell. Suddenly, she was leaning over him, brushing damp strands of hair from his face, an inscrutable smile playing at the corners of her mouth. She bent closer, first to kiss him, then to whisper something in his ear. It was barely audible over the haunting melody, and at first he thought he had misheard her, but the look in her eyes when she met his gaze again told him he had heard her correctly.

Make that a very happy fool.


	4. Chapter 4

Three months later...

It would remain a subject of contentious debate among the field team as to who exactly had figured it out first, Ishikawa or Togusa. The dispute was only a matter of personal pride, of course, as the real wager had been on what would happen, not on who would discover it.

The rookies had been left out, too green to be trusted not to blab to Batou, or worse, the Major, and no one breathed a word to the Chief, who would have shut the whole thing down and put them all on cleaning duty for wasting department time.

Saito had declined to participate, knowing exactly what his punishment would be if either subject of their speculation found out.

Pazu had wagered, rather morbidly, that the ex-Ranger would eventually despair of chasing the unattainable Major and off himself in some unspeakably violent fashion.

Ishikawa, less morbidly, but equally cynically, put his money on Batou pining forever with that monastic devotion that the old man found slightly perverse.

Togusa, ever the optimist, bet that the pair would disappear together to reemerge under new identities that could live happily ever after. He had protested that there was still time for that to happen before handing over his credits, but was shouted down by the others who insisted that was not part of the wager.

But it was quiet, unassuming Borma, who saw more than anyone ever gave him credit for, who accurately predicted both the nature and the circumstances of the relationship, and was rewarded for his astuteness with a fat stack of credits and the looks on his teammates' faces as they handed them over. Pazu had grumbled something about cheating, Ishikawa had said nothing, and Togusa had peppered him with awestruck questions about how he knew. All of them, though, cheered a little inside when they discovered that what they had been collectively rooting for was finally happening.

It would be almost exactly 45 minutes after the changing of money that Batou and Motoko realized that they had been found out. It had only taken a few knowing winks and one very poorly thought out off hand comment about honeymoon destinations to tip them off. The Major had just pinched the bridge of her nose, scowling silently, while Batou launched into a red-faced tirade of bellowing expletives and very specific threats as the rest of the team collapsed into raucous howls of laughter around the smaller of Section 9's two briefing rooms.

"I don't know what could possibly be so funny at a time like this," the stern, irritated voice of Aramaki cut through the din, a withering gaze silencing any lingering sniggers as he crossed the room to his place at the head of the table. "An anti-cyberization faction seized control of the Russian embassy at 0700 this morning. They have taken several hostages, including the Deputy Minister for Foreign Affairs and the Russian Ambassador, and are demanding an immediate halt to all imports of Russian-manufactured prosthetics. We have orders from the Prime Minister to handle the matter. Quietly."

The Major, silently thanking the Chief for the diversion, took command, barking orders that left no room for argument. Suddenly on their best professional behavior, the field operatives stood to attention and echoed their affirmatives, moving to execute their fearsome commander's directives.

Before any of them made it past the threshold, though, Aramaki interjected again, a vulpine smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Oh and Major, Batou, I don't know when you two were planning to tell me, but it's about damn time."

The facade of professionalism dissolved once more into roars of laughter and one very creative stream of expletives.

There would be no wedding bells for them, no exchanges of vows, no official records. Instead, there would only be silent promises, whispered between ghosts through stolen glances and the furtive clasping of hands in the back of an armored van or the belly of a tiltrotor.

Promises, that the one would always be there for the other, with cover fire, or a steadying hand, or a stiff drink, or whatever else the situation demanded. Promises, that when the mission was complete, when the gunfire had subsided and the smoke had cleared, when the enemy was securely behind bars or in the ground, they would find each other again. Promises, that if she felt herself being pulled away, as if by some invisible, inexorable hand, she would warn him, tell him how to find her. Promises, that once a year, regardless of where they were or what present crisis was throwing their lives into turmoil, they would find a private moment to hold each other close and sway in gentle time to a sad, soulful song by a long dead trumpeter.

* * *

Notes:

Hat tip to boathazard of Tumblr for the betting pool headcanon. I had my own ideas about how that wager would play out, but you can read their fantastic headcanons here: post/172024869402/batoumotoko-headcanons-ft-emotionally-illiterate


End file.
